by Glen Cook
The Colonel steeled himself, knocked.
“Enter.”
He stepped inside. Six men were seated along the sides of a long table. The Duke himself sat at the table’s head. He gestured, indicating the seat at the table’s foot. The Colonel sat down.
The Duke said, “Now I’ll end the speculation. Our cousin Inger has received an offer of marriage.”
One of the others asked, “That’s why all the whispers and night messengers? Pardon me, Dane, but that seems a little….”
“Let me expand. You’ll see why it’s a matter for the highest family councils.
“Our cousin nursed in a hospital during the siege of the city by Shinsan’s forces. She became romantically involved with a patient. Rather a torrid affair, I gather, though she was understandably reluctant to part with details. When the siege broke and the war moved southward, she thought it was over. She heard nothing from the man. The usual story. Used by a soldier who moved on.
“But four days ago she received a proposal of marriage from the man. She thought it over, then came to me for advice.
“Gentlemen, the gods have smiled on the family at last. They’ve handed us a golden opportunity. Our cousin’s suitor is Bragi Ragnarson, Marshall of Kavelin, who commanded the allied armies during the Great Eastern Wars.”
Dead silence held the room for half a minute. The Colonel didn’t even breath. Ragnarson. Blood enemy of the Greyfells for a generation. Responsible for the assassination of one duke and the bloody abortion of half a dozen family projects. Probably the man most hated by everyone in the room, saving himself. He was just a soldier. He didn’t hate anyone.
He began to sense the shape of the shadow and didn’t like it. It was in the tradition of Greyfells schemes.
The six all started talking at once. The Duke held up a hand. “Please?” He waited. Then, “Gentlemen, if that news isn’t enough to excite you, consider this. Those fools down there are going to make him King. They couldn’t find anybody else willing to take the crown. Do you see? This is an opportunity not only to avenge ourselves on an ancient enemy, it’s a chance to steal the crown of the richest and most strategically placed of the Lesser Kingdoms. A chance for us to move our base out of Itaskia entirely and free ourselves of the miserable nuisance of a perpetually inimical Crown. A chance to seize the most important counter in the conflict between east and west. A chance to recoup the greatness we’ve lost.”
The Duke’s excitement communicated itself to the men at the sides of the table. The Colonel was less intrigued. Here was more Greyfells dirty work, and he had a feeling he would be asked to carry part of the load. Why else was he here?
The Duke said, “The simple, basic question is, should we let our cousin accept?” He smiled. “Or, do we dare not let her? It would be a sin to ignore an opportunity like this. Eh?”
No one demurred. Someone said, “But we couldn’t just let it go and hope.”
“Of course not. Inger would be the lever. The foot in the door. The distraction. Right now she just wants to see her leman again, but I imagine we can get her to be the family’s agent. For insurance, and to take charge of the day-to-day details, I suggest we send the Colonel here.”
The Colonel kept his features rigidly controlled. So there it was. And it stunk. There were times when he wished he didn’t owe this family a debt of loyalty.
The Duke asked, “Can anyone propose a reason why we shouldn’t pursue the policy I’m suggesting?”
Heads shook. One man said, “Something as good as this, you needn’t have asked.”
“I wanted unanimity of purpose going in. Carried, then? Pursue the possibilities, at least till we see some insuperable stumbling block?”
Heads nodded.
“Good. Fine.” The Duke’s voice was silky with pleasure. “I thought you’d like it. That’s all for now. Let me look into it further. Let me see if there are pitfalls. I’ll keep you posted. You can go now.” He leaned back. As everyone neared the door, “Oh. Don’t discuss this with anyone. Anyone at all. Colonel, yes, I want you to stay.”
The Colonel had risen but not left the table. He seated himself again. He rested his forearms on the tabletop and stared at a point over the Duke’s right shoulder.
Once the door closed, the Duke said, “Actually, we’re farther along than I admitted. Babeltausque put me in touch with some old friends from the Pracchia days. They’ve agreed to help.” Babeltausque was a sorcerer in the family employ. The Colonel loathed him.
“That’s a strange face you’ve got there, Colonel. You don’t approve?”
“No, My Lord. I don’t trust the wizard.”
“Perhaps not. They’re a slimy, slippery breed. Never the less, we seem to have adequate resources for the project. We have but to convert the woman and send her on her way.”
“I see.”
“I really do get the feeling that you don’t approve.”
“I’m sorry, My Lord. I don’t mean to appear negative.”
“Then you’ll take the mission? You’ll go to Kavelin on our behalf? You’ll be away for years.”
“I am yours to command, My Lord.” And how he wished he were not. But one had to pay one’s dues.
“Good. Good. Make yourself free of the castle. I’ll keep you posted on developments.”
The Colonel rose, bowed slightly, left the room smartly. A soldier doesn’t ask, he told himself. A soldier obeys. And I, sadly, am a soldier in the Duke’s employ.
ONE: YEAR 1016 AFE
RULERS
Bragi groaned. Inger shook him again. “Come on, Your Kingship. Get up.”
He cracked a lid. One glassless window stared back with a cold eye. “It’s still dark out.”
“It just looks like it.”
He grumbled as his feet hit the chilly floor. It was one of those ice-bottom days, going to turn hellfire come afternoon. He gathered the bearskin round him and told himself there had to be a point to rising.
It was springtime in Kavelin. The days were hot and the nights were cold. The weather was foul more often than not.
Bragi yawned, tried to rub the sleep from his eyes. “It raining? My head feels like it’s packed with wool.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that. Yes. One of your steady Kaveliner drizzles.”
He said what everybody always said. “Be good for the farmers.”
She completed the ritual. “We need it.” She posed. “Not bad for an old broad, eh?”
“Pretty good. For a wife.” There was no heart in his jest.
Her too-small mouth fashioned a pout. “What do you mean, for a wife?”
His grin was as grey as he felt. “You know what they say. That old grass always looks greener.”
“You grazing in somebody else’s pasture?”
“What?” He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled round looking for his clothing.
“Last night was only the second time this month.”
He gave it the light treatment. “I’m getting old.”
Something inside cawed sarcastically. He was fooling himself, not her. A nasty black chasm yawned at his feet. Trouble was, he did not know if it was waiting for him to try jumping over or if he was on the other side looking back.
“Is it another woman, Ragnarson?” There wasn’t any kitten in her now. She was all bitch cat. The habitual brittle smile had left her lips.
“No.” For once he was telling the truth. He didn’t have a single little round-heel on the string. The soft curves, the warm mounds, the humid thighs did not set the fires roaring these days. They seemed more a distraction than a reasonable interest. They irritated more than excited.
Was it symptomatic of age? Time was an implacable thief.
Ragnarson’s growing indifference worried him. The departure of the drive to collect scalps left a vacuum like the loss of an old friend.
“You’re sure?”
“Absodamnlutely, as friend Mocker might have said.”
“I wish I had met him,” she
mused. “Haroun, too. Maybe I’d know you better by knowing them.”
“You should’ve known them….”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Honey, I haven’t had no strange in so long I wouldn’t know what to do. Probably just stand there with my thumb in my ear till the lady cussed me out.”
Inger whipped a comb through her hair. Blonde rat’s nests grabbed it. She was wondering. He had come tagged with a reputation, but had not lived up to it.
Maybe he was too busy. Kavelin was his extramarital lover. She was a demanding mistress.
He eyed this woman who was both his wife and Kavelin’s Queen. She was the one gift the wars had given him. Time had done well by her. She was a tall, elegant woman of brittle beauty and even more brittle humor. She had the most intriguing mouth he had ever seen. No matter her mood, her lips seemed on the verge of a sarcastic smile. Something about her green eyes magnified that foreshadow of laughter.
First glance said she was a lady. Second might suggest an earthy soul. She was an enigma, an intriguing creature hiding inside a shell that betrayed a new mystery each time it opened. Bragi thought her as perfect a Queen as a King could ask. She had been born for the role.
That secret smile came out of hiding. “You just might be telling the truth.”
“Of course I am.”
“And you’re disappointed, eh?”
He did not answer that one. She had a knack for caging him with questions he did not want to answer. “Maybe you’d better check the baby.”
“You’re ducking the issue again.”
“Damned right.”
“All right. I’ll let up. What’s on for today?” She insisted on being a full participant in royal affairs. He was new to the kinging business. Coping with a strong-willed woman complicated his task.
His circle of old comrades agreed. Some had strong opinions about Inger’s “interference.”
She returned from the nursery. She carried their son Fulk. “He was sleeping like a rock. Now he wants to be fed.”
Bragi slipped an arm around her. He stared down at the infant. Babies were still a wonder to him.
Fulk was his first by Inger, and her first ever. He was a lusty six-monther. Bragi told Inger, “I’m having the whole mob in about Derel’s message this morning. After lunch I’m supposed to play Captures.”
“In this weather?”
“They challenged. It’s up to them to call it off.” He began lacing his boots. “They’re good mudders.”
“Aren’t you a little old for it?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe he was past it. The reflexes were going. The muscles could not take it the way they had. Maybe he was an old man with one hand desperately clamped on an illusion of youth. He did not enjoy Captures much. “What about you?”
“Terminal boredom. And it won’t stop till the Thing adjourns. I feel like a governess.”
He forbore reminding her that she had demanded the right to entertain the delegates’ women.
Commencement for the spring session was a week away, but the wealthier members were in town already, sampling Vorgreberg’s social possibilities.
Bragi said, “I’m going to get something to eat.” He was an informal king. He had no patience with pomp and ceremony, and very little with the luxuries his position afforded. His was a warriorly background. He strove to maintain a spartan, soldierly self-image.
“Don’t I get a kiss?”
“Thought you’d be kissed out.”
“Never. Fulk too!”
He kissed the baby, left.
Maybe Fulk was the problem. He pondered it as he descended the stair. The battle had begun during the name-choosing. He had lost that round.
It had been a difficult birth. Inger wanted no more children. He did, though he did not consider himself a good father.
Too, Inger was worried about Fulk’s patrimony. He was born of Ragnarson’s second marriage. Bragi had three older offspring, and a grandson named Bragi. The latter might as well have been his own child. His father, Ragnarson’s firstborn, had perished at Palmisano.
The King’s first family lived at his private house, outside Vorgreberg proper. His son’s widow managed the place and youngsters. He had not visited them in weeks. “Have to get out there soon,” he muttered. His inattention to his children was one of the few guilts he suffered.
He made a mental note to solicit a legal opinion from his secretary, Derel Prataxis, as soon as the man returned from his mission.
Ragnarson had led a charmed life. He thought his luck overdue to change. It was part of that fear of growing old. The edge was going. The reactions were slowing. The instincts might not be trustworthy. His mortality was catching up.
Maybe he could negotiate some succession understanding during the Thing’s session. They had not made the kingship hereditary when they had dragooned him into it.
He approached the castle’s main kitchen. Strong smells and a loud voice emanated from its open door.
“Yeah. That’s no lie. Yeah. Nine women in one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Yeah. I was a young man then. Fourteen days on a transport. I never even saw a woman, let alone had one. Yeah. You don’t believe me, but it’s the truth. Nine women in one day.”
Ragnarson smiled. Someone had Josiah Gales cranked up. On purpose, no doubt. He was a one-man show when he got going. He grew louder and louder, flinging his arms around, dancing, stomping, rolling his eyes as he underscored every statement physically.
Josiah Gales. Sergeant of infantry. Bowman supreme. Minor cog in the palace machine. One of two hundred soldiers and skilled artisans Inger had brought as dowry because her cadet line of Itaskia’s Greyfells family had fallen into genteel poverty.
He smiled again. They were still laughing up north, thinking themselves rid of an unruly woman cheaply, while gaining a connection with a prized crown.
The unseen sergeant whooped on. “Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn’t showing off. I was working. Yeah. That seventh one. I still remember her. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She’s going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can’t take anymore.’ Yeah. That’s the truth. Nine women in one day. In twenty-four hours. I was a young man then.”
Gales repeated himself over and over. The more wound up he was, the more he did so, mouthing every sentence at least once to everyone within hearing. His audience seldom minded.
Bragi approached the duty cook. “Skrug. Any chicken left from last night? I just want something to snack on.”
The cook nodded. He jerked his chin in Gales’s direction. “Nine women in one day.”
“I’ve heard this one before.”
“What do you think?”
“He’s consistent. He doesn’t make it bigger when he retells it.”
“You were at Simballawein when the Itaskians landed, weren’t you?”
“It was Libiannin. I didn’t run into Gales. I would’ve remembered him.”
The cook laughed. “He does make an impression.” He produced a tray of cold chicken. “This do the job, Sire?”
“That’s plenty. Let’s sit over here and watch the show.”
Gales had an audience of serving people come to town with the advisers and assistants Bragi was to meet later that morning. For them the sergeant’s stories were fresh. They responded well. Gales undertook further flights of whimsical autobiography.
“I’ve been all over this world,” Gales declared. “I mean, everywhere. Yeah. Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein. Yeah. I’ve had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That’s no lie. I got five different women right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I’ve got one, she’s fifty-eight years old.”
Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing Palace Guard leaned in the doorway. “Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What’s she do when she goes down? Gum you to death?”
The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let o
ut a great wail of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, “Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That’s right. I’m not lying.”
“You didn’t answer the question, Gales. What’s she do?”
The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answering.
Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.
“Low humor,” the cook growled.
“The lowest,” Bragi agreed. “Straight out of the gutter. So how come you can’t wipe that grin off your face?”
“If it was anybody but Gales….”
The sergeant’s audience trampled his protests. They buried him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He bounced around, roaring with laughter, vainly trying to regain control of the group. “Tell us the truth, Gales,” they insisted.
Bragi shook his head and murmured, “He’s a wonder. He loves it. I couldn’t stand it.”
Soberly, the cook asked, “But what’s he good for?”
“A laugh.” Bragi stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger’s dowry-men had proven useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That might prove troublesome one day.
He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.
As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out spotless. “They’re ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire.” He stood as rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face.
Bragi did not understand. Dahl’s father had followed him for decades. The man had been as earthy as Gales.
“Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient.”
The soldier strode out as though he had a board nailed to his back. Second generation, Ragnarson thought. The others were gone. Dahl was the last.
Palmisano had claimed many old friends, his only brother, and his son Ragnar. Kavelin was a hungry little bitch goddess of a kingdom, eager for sacrifices. He sometimes wondered if it didn’t demand too much, if he hadn’t made the biggest mistake of his life when he had allowed himself to be made King.
